


Catch Me If You Can

by thepeskyunicorn



Series: In Heat [3]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-16 09:22:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5823169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepeskyunicorn/pseuds/thepeskyunicorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The marketplace is  a wonderful mess, with smells and sights mingling into one, air so thick with conviviality and the human spirit that Napoleon could almost taste it. It’s a few blocks away from the hotel and the perfect place to lose a trail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catch Me If You Can

The marketplace of Italy is a mass of human body and colours, a veritable sprawl of humanity, with the tourists pressed alongside locals, cameras flashing and accents flying fast and thick. The vendors hawk their wares with a fervour, pushing potential customers to try, taste, and see, slipping goods into hands with promises and encouragement, each item better than the last.

It’s easy to differentiate the locals from the tourists, with their baskets and brisk walking, lithe bodies and plain clothing slipping between the gawkers and haggling at the top of their voices over everything. The place is a wonderful mess, with smells and sights mingling into one, air so thick with conviviality and the human spirit that Napoleon could almost taste it. It’s a few blocks away from the hotel and the perfect place to lose a trail.

Napoleon’s fingers itch to take from the squeeze of bodies tantalizingly close to him, eager to dip into pockets and have what he wants, but he resists, for the moment. Hunching a little, he lengthens his strides, consciously looping his gait and putting weight in his steps. He glanced around, eyes wides and steps lumbering, blending in with the throng of American that pass by, taking the opportunity to lift the wallet of a particularly loud redneck. I can resist everything except temptation, Napoleon thinks wryly, smiling as he recalls the urge to kiss Illya senseless. He closed his eyes, savouring the blend of sweat and excitement, before ambling towards the nearest stall, careful to brush against as many bodies as possible.

Napoleon pulls his cap low over his eyes, shrugging on his outsized coat despite the heat, peering with outward curiosity over the seasonal fruits. He smiles charmingly at the owner of the fruit stall, watching with satisfaction as she blushed prettily and hands him an apple. He sees her lean forward subtly, all the better to scent him with, and her eyes widen as she realises the scent of alpha pressed into his skin. It’s not hard to see why; the coat is Illya’s, nicked from the coat rack as he slipped out of their hotel room, just a little too tight as the shoulder and a little too long at the arms.

“So sorry, sir,” she stutters, retreating a little, embarrassed and a little mortified. This is not something she does often.

“No, no, it’s alright,” Napoleon leans forward, letting his fringe fall forwards, maintaining eye contact and watching her blush deepen. It’s one of his best angles, and it earns him a free apple as she waves away the coins he tries to press in her hand. Napoleon gives her a lazy smirk, pressing his body heavily against the storefront and brushing his fingers against the fruits. Pushing away, he nods, pocketing the apple and proceeding to the next store.

He loses himself in a circle of housewives, arguing over fresh fish, careful not to slip as he stares at the turbot and oysters. The smell is strong, almost putrid in the heat, and Napoleon doesn’t stay long, just enough to imagine plunging his fingers in the slimy mass of squid with a shudder. Maybe next time, he thinks wistfully, already knowing that with the way his life is, the next mission will bring him far away from here, and the next, and the next. He’s a good cook, and the local seafood would be wonderful to feed Gaby and Illya with.

His next stop is at a shop selling earthenware; a small, unassuming tent like sanctuary with the owner smoking nonchalantly outside, vapour disappearing in the air before him as he observes those who passed. He gives Napoleon a disinterested once over as he ducks in, more content with watching the crowds than minding the shop. Napoleon takes the opportunity to cup his hands around the pots and vases, marvelling at their simple and elegant structure, feeling their cool surface heat under his palms. He pays for a small, roughly made wolf, red clay thrown together with deliberate carelessness, giving the final product a charmingly rustic look. He thinks of Illya, an occurrence that happens far too often to be casual, and the way he resembles the clay wolf. He wraps the trinket carefully in his handkerchief, making up his mind to gift it to the man as soon as possible.

As he stepped out once more from the tent, Napoleon could feel the back of his neck prickling, instinct warning him that he is being followed. He quirks his lips and turns subtly, glancing at the mirrored surface of a pair of sunglasses he was admiring, laughing to himself as he sees the very conspicuous figure of Illya, trying his best to conceal his height amongst the crowd.

He lets himself be cornered at the alleyway near to the market, skin tingling with anticipation, eager play, to submit.

The sight of Illya looming at the entrance is enough to send his senses into overdrive, his eyesight sharpening, the smell of alpha too overwhelming yet so far, his fingers aching to touch and explore.

“You are very liberal with your scent, Cowboy,” is the first thing Illya says to him.

Napoleon pushed his hair back, joy filling him at the closeness of his alpha. “Maybe that was the plan.”

He sheds his jacket, casually moving a few steps forward, delighting in the way Illya’s stance turn predatory, his omega almost within grabbing distance. God, it almost hurts to abstain, but Napoleon clench his fist, not willing to end the game just yet.

“Here you go,” he says, throwing the jacket towards Illya. He catches with barely a glance, breath hitching as his eyes roams Napoleon’s sweaty form and the shirt that clings to him in just the right places, eyes glimmering and bright. There is the smell of Illya pressed to his skin, fitting between the creases of his elbows and neck, a facsimile of the real thing standing before him. “I don’t know how you can stand wearing that thing. The material is so cheap.”

Illya laughs, a low rumble making Napoleon shiver. “Say the man with the ugly shoes.” He feels around the inner lining of his coat, pulling out the apple and wolf with a frown. “A gift,” he tilts his head, looking very wolfish himself. “You know what this mean, Cowboy?”

Napoleon grinned, shrugging. “I figured we should do this proper.”

Illya’s pockets the apple again, fingers stroking reverently as he examines the clay figurine. “It is beautiful.” He looks up, sincerity startling in its intensity. “Thank you, Napoleon.”

Napoleon had to physically restrain himself from pouncing on the man then and there and having his wicked way with him. He stops himself, just barely, because he’s a saint and because he really does intend to do this properly. “I’m not going to make this easy for you, you know.”

Illya doesn’t smile, but there is no mistaking the fondness in his voice. “Nothing about you is easy.” He shrugs on the jacket, giving the small bulge where the wolf his kept a pat. “But that is what I love best about you.”

Damn it, Illya is going to be the death of him one day.

There is a moment of impasses, Illya calculating his next step and Napoleon already ten steps ahead. Aiming a cocky grin, Napoleon grounds his feet and says, playfully, “Catch me if you can.”

Then he jumps, grabbing the railings of the staircase above him, the one he had been eyeing as he moved into position. Hauling himself up, he glanced down, watching as Illya bares his teeth, feral and excited. Game on.

He moves through the city with relative ease, pacing himself as he leaps from rooftop to rooftop, ever aware of Illya behind him. He feels the synchronicity of his muscles working, hears his pants coming measured and quick, feel the thrum of ancient instinct under his skin. This is the omega in his element, leading his alpha on a merry chase. No risk, no danger, just the thrill of the hunt.

Napoleon pakours over a water tank, feeling himself briefly suspend in the air. The spiral of the city layout is stunning from here, sun hanging low in the skyline and the energy of the city in his bones. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Illya take a leap, managing a half turn before landing smoothly into a roll. He laugh, low and quick. It’s pleasantly surprising to have an Illya eager to please in his own silent way.

Napoleon is picking the lock of their hotel room, legs shaky with exhaustion from the run, cursing himself for forgetting the room keys, when he feels a presence, and then a warm front pressed against his back.

“Got you,” Illya’s voice is low and rough in his ear, one hand coming up to grip Napoleon’s hip, teeth catching on his earlobe. Napoleon lets out a low moan, twisting around to capture Illya’s mouth with his own.He could feel the beast in Illya rising from the way he nipped his lips, worrying it just hard enough to draw blood, incoherent promises coming staccato and quick in between breaths.

“Let’s see what the big bad wolf have in store for me, shall we?” he murmured, lifting the keys from Illya’s pocket and unlocking the door with shaky fingers, trying not to drop them as Illya growled and marks a path up the column of his neck, sucking hickeys like his life depends on it.

They stumbled into the room, barely remembering to hang the ‘Do not disturb’ sign and lock the door, kicking off shoes and stealing hungry kisses in between navigation to the bed. Illya’s lips are a brand, capturing and sucking, almost as demanding as his hands tearing his clothing from his body, and that alone is almost enough to bring Napoleon to his knees.

Napoleon has a very specific plan as to how the night is going to end, and it certainly does not contain him lying back and taking it. Pushing a nearly naked Illya on the bed reluctantly, he bends over him, face hovering close enough to see each individual eyelash.

“Stay,” he breathes, a command for him, pleased with the way Illya goes still, whine of displeasure the only sign of rebellion. Untamed and wild, yet so willing to submit to him - it’s a heady feeling to be having. Napoleon smiles, rewarding Illya with a kiss to the nose, earning him a moue of annoyance in return.

There is a common misconception that omegas are the submissives, the weak and helpless, the ones ready to bend over for any alpha and take whatever is given to them without a word of complaint. Nature, however, has a particular way of subverting opinions. Provide; show that you are worthy, and the omega will choose. The lioness in heat does not show her belly to the male; she doles out her affections as and when she likes, and withholds privilege to those who will not follow.

Napoleon pins Illya’s wrist to the sheet, admiring the way his Peril is stretched beneath him, a long line of muscle and barely contained tension, straining to claim. Running his hands down Illya’s arms, to the sensitive ridges of his ribcage, Napoleon sucked lightly at his adam’s apple, feeling it bob under his mouth and his body shiver. Dipping his fingers to Illya’s hipbones, he traces the divots of his hips, feeling fragile bones as he nuzzles under his neck, savouring the smell of home and unrestrained strength.

“Stay,” he whispers again, bringing a hand up to stroke Illya’s forehead, kissing the lids as his eyes flutter shut.

He eases of the bed, padding to the foot of it to slowly strip off his shirt, teasing it up and off his body, keeping it provocative and dirty, huffing a laugh as Illya makes a choked sound, fingers flexing and clenching. Napoleon pulls the fabric over his head, balling the material and throwing it to the corner, meeting Illya’s appreciative gaze as he flexed, not missing the wrecked look on Peril’s face.

“See something you like?”

Illya wrinkled his nose, an action so completely adorable and out of place in the situation that it almost makes Napoleon giggle. “You will pay for this, Cowboy,” he threatened weakly, but makes no move to reach for him.

“Really?” Napoleon unbuttons his trousers, sliding the zip down excruciatingly slow. The jagged sound of it is deliciously dirty, making his mouth water and he pushes it down to his ankles, as deliberately and steady as he can, an exercise in patience.

His underwear goes next, and Napoleon lavish in the attention Illya is giving, intense focus usually used on missions directed at his hardening cock. He gives it a few leisurely pumps for good measure, arching his neck as his thumb passes over the slit, spreading precum over the length.

“You’ve been a good boy,” he purred, slinking his way to the bed, bringing a finger smeared with his liquid up to lick, pretending not to notice the way Illya’s eyes follows the movement, tongue coming out to wet his lips. Bracketing Illya’s head with his hands, he straddles the other man’s waist, sinking down to his elbows until their lips are almost touching. He can feel the fine trembling of Illya’s thighs under his jeans, and he bent his head to nuzzle his neck. “Perhaps I should reward you. What do you want, my alpha?”

There was a pause, and Napoleon could see the flashing of a thousand wants in Illya’s eyes.

“You,” he finally answers, raw sincerity in his voice. “As much as you are willing to give.”

And wasn’t that just the heart breaking part, because Napoleon would fly to the moon and back, would pluck down the stars, would commit every sin and cliche, just for Illya.There’s nothing in him that is not willing to give.

Napoleon is only slightly aware of the sound of raw need he makes, self control be damned, and the rush of clothes being torn off, groaning at the slide of overheated skin against his. He is barely cognizant to the stretch as Illya coat his fingers with slick and pushes in, more focused on rutting against Illya, jolting a little and then settling into a blabbering mess as Illya finds his prostate, massaging and toying, eyes cataloguing every moment of Napoleon’s pleasure, savage pride clear on his face. Illya’s teeth catches on his nipples as he bends to suckle, free hand going to tug his balls as Napoleon keens at the simulation, making soothing noises to shush him.

Napoleon sinks down on him, gritting his teeth at the rough slide, whimpering as Illya kneads his ass, words of comfort and affection being whispered in his ears. It’s an addiction, a craving, and Napoleon is never going to need another after this. He rocks his hips, slow, languid, throwing his head back as Illya found a rhythm and thrusts, lighting him up from the inside. There is the familiar untamed strength of Illya’s that promises to fuck him into next week, and from the way he is grasping Napoleon’s ass and trembling, he’s probably wanting to flip him over right about now.

But Napoleon has the lead, for now, and he takes the chance to set the rhythm, slow and ruthless, just enough tantalising friction to make Illya grit his teeth and moan.

"Easy there, Peril," he murmured, sitting up and sliding luxuriously all the way down Illya's cock. He had to bite his lips to stifle the whimper that almost escaped as he brushed against his prostate, hands grasping Illya's hips to steady him as he starts to ride.

"You know," he starts conversationally, as if bouncing on your alpha's cock after a successful Chase is a great time to chat. "I never thought you could be this patient. Honestly, Peril," Napoleon purposely clenched, watching with glee as Illya let out something akin to a squeak before glaring and pumping his hips once, viciously. "Ah! I, oh god, honestly thought you were just going to bulldoze through the crowd and fuck me over one of the stalls."

Illya chuckled, hands clasping Napoleon's ass and kneading. "Is still not too late for that, Cowboy. You want to give it a try?"

Napoleon groaned, cock giving a very interested twitch. "God, you kinky Son of a bitch." He leaned forward, lifting his ass almost all the way off Illya's cock, their chest just touching. Rolling his hips, he pushed his hips all the way down, relishing in Illya's wreaked moans. "What say you, Peril, that we put that body of yours to good use?"

Illya grunts. "You talk too much Cowboy."

With an impressive show of strength, Illya flipped them over, pushing Napoleon to the pillows, predatory smile on his lips. "And one day, you're going to get what you deserve."

Hooking Napoleon's legs higher up his waist, Illya proceeded to pound him through the bed, eyes soft and focus despite the savageness of his thrusts. It was all Napoleon could do to hold on to the bed post for his dear life, eyes rolling to the back of his head as Illya hit his prostate with devastating accuracy, teeth bared and vicious.

Illya is not gentle; he never has been, and Napoleon welcomes the bites and bruises, presses himself to the too tight grip Illya has on his hips as the picks up speed. He could just register Illya’s hand on his cock, pulling in rough strokes, adding to the almost heady stimulation. He’s close; he can feel it, desperate enough to signal to Illya what he wants, but too undone to articulate it properly, words coming out in needy sobs instead.

“I got you, Cowboy,” Illya murmured, kissing his cheek, hips moving faster as Napoleon looks through the slits of his eyes, the tenderness in Illya’s eyes a fascination to watch. “I got you, Napoleon,” he bent his head, growling his words into Napoleon’s ear, biting his lobe. “Come now.”

And then Napoleon is flying over the edge, head thrown back in a scream, nails scratching a long line down Illya’s back, making a mess of himself on Illya’s fist.

He sank back down on the pillow, sated and warm, aware of Illya pulling out, still visibly hard.Napoleon makes a noise of question, only to be answered with a smile and Illya’s reply, “I’m not done with you yet, Cowboy.”

He registers being turned to his side and entered again, his hole loose and slick enough to make it less unpleasant. Humming with satisfaction, he feels Illya move, snuggling himself back into his broad chest and tilting his neck, twining his fingers with the ones low on his belly.

They stay like this for the longest time, ensconced in the moment and the smell of satisfaction and contentment in the air, Illya rocking steadily into Napoleon’s body, whispering intelligible words of russian in his ear, bending ever so often to bury his head in the hollow of Napoleon’s throat.

When Napoleon comes for the second time that evening, Illya is not far behind, panting out his release with Napoleon’s name hanging from his lips. It feels like an understanding and a promise, and afterwards, when they are curled up on fresh sheets after a cursory shower, Napoleon wonders about just how they come to this.

“Absolutely hated working with you, Peril,” he says sleepily, words mirrored from a lifetime and a half ago. He cannot bring himself to discuss it now, whatever it is that has happened, is happening, or will happen in the future. But he hopes Illya’s understands, and that this is as close as he can get his selfish heart to admit ‘I love you’.

Illya’s little laugh ruffles his hair and reverberates through him. “You’re a terrible spy, Cowboy.” And Napoleon knows, that Illya more than understands; he accepts.

Napoleon closed his eyes, smiling, finally allowing himself to drift off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> It's done! So sorry for taking so long! I'm not very good at writing smut so it took quite some time trying to piece it all together. Hopefully, it's worth it!  
> As always, you can come hmu on [tumblr](ambedoandangst.tumblr.com)


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